Had he thought of it—had he been able to think about it—he’d have mentioned that she had a new wristwatch, too, that never needed winding. Or batteries.
He had gone through the basic list—a new body, no arthritis, as young as a doe in springtime at the side of the woods, never to become old again, in her new mansion in the sky looking down on us—but he did not say anything about her new wristwatch.
Anyway, it wasn’t his place to think of everything. How could he think of everything! He was just a faithful reporter of things he had read and heard a thousand times, standing straight and strong among the grieving.
He said it out loud. He said he really did not understand it. He couldn’t! How could he! He was just a believer, called to be a bearer of the good news who, when it came right down to it, really did not understand how any of this worked, but that he believed it, as all of us were called to do, and isn’t that how it ought to be? He did not have to remind us in so many words—his very posture and serene smile were more than adequate to demonstrate it—that he was just a bearer of the good news that every death is just a welcome to a splendid kingdom prepared for those of us whose watches have worn out.
Had he remembered that he had read it once, he’d have said something about William Paley’s watchmaker story; you know, the one about finding a stunningly fine watch on a trail through the woods, just lying there, keeping time. He’d have said something about how anybody’d have thought their way through it and decided that if you went through the woods and found a watch like that, you’d have to conclude that there was a watchmaker around here, somewhere. And the world was like a magnificent watch, wasn’t it, running like clockwork, perfect proof that there had to be a cosmic watchmaker somewhere who had thought of it, and created it, and who rested from his labors on the seventh day. But he didn’t think of that, either, so he didn’t mention that she had a new watch.
He thought of it later, and wished he had a really fine watch that he could use at times like those, but even a Rolex would not do justice to the kind of watch heaven would bring. “A rose!”, he thought. “A perfect rose! Nearly every rose was perfect!” He could tell the watch and watchmaker story, and say god wasn’t so much a watchmaker as a rosemaker. The world was a kind of rose, manufactured by a cosmic watchmaker. Then he could place the rose next to the urn of ashes, or somewhere, and say that she was like a young doe in springtime wearing a perfect watch.
Maybe not. The whole thing broke down, somehow, if you thought about it too much. The world isn’t so much a watch as it is a rose with thorns, and a rose isn’t manufactured: it grows, naturally. But as he always said, at such times, that death and resurrection and going to be with god always was beyond human comprehension, sort of like a really fine watch, and the point is that some things are not clear to us now: they are matters of faith. And isn’t that how it is supposed to be? One day we shall see clearly, but now it is like seeing through a glass pretty darkly.
He was not embarrassed—he was proud—to say that these things were beyond him. There are deep mysteries, deep waters running . . . deeply. And it was not his to doubt and wonder. His was to speak words of comfort to those in sorrow. Someday it would be clear, like dying and finding a watch in the woods.
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